Step Five: Part One

Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs

On a cold, cloudy Saturday morning a few years ago, I met my then-sponsor at his house. I had brought a warm beverage and many sheets of yellow legal paper that were folded into my jacket’s inside pocket—otherwise called my “searching and fearless moral inventory.” The latter had been my assignment for about four weeks. I had recorded all my resentments, my fears, and an assortment of secrets, along with perceived character strengths and weaknesses. I had come prepared to lay it all out on the table.

Only there was no table; there was the dashboard of Jim P.’s Toyota Prius. We were meeting for a car ride too. That’s where I shared my personal inventory—in the passenger seat of Jim P.’s Prius, while Jim P. drove some route that led us far outside the city. We drove for more than three hours. In that time, we sat side-by-side and not facing one another.

Jim P. wasn’t there to judge, to condemn, or to give absolution. He was there to listen, to encourage examination—“what’s the thing behind the thing, Michael?” he would say—and to share his own life experience when it felt either appropriate or necessary.

He did all of this as I sat there and, in the beginning, simply read from those sheets of yellow legal paper. Eventually, I read and offered additional commentary. Occasionally, things would appear that I had forgotten. I shared those too. At times I was terribly frustrated; other times I was on the verge of tears and then in tears. When we finished our drive, though, I felt unburdened. I had taken a “leap of faith”; in response there arose a certain lightness—and sheer gratitude.

Step Five reads:

Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.

There are several parts of this step that deserve exploration. For this post, I’ll focus on just its first word: “admitted.” What is its significance? How does it relate to the admission central to Step One?

There is a ceremony in Zen Buddhism called Ryaku Fusatsu (Full Moon Ceremony). As the ceremony’s name suggests, it’s held on or around the full moon each month. Common to all versions of Ryaku Fusatsu is the short chant Sangemon (Verse of Repentance). In Sino-Japanese and in English it reads:

GA SHAKU SHO ZO SHO AKU GO
KAI YO MUSHI TON JIN CHI
JU SHIN KU I SHI SHO SHO
ISSAI GA KON KAI SAN GE

All the karma ever created by me since of old,
through beginningless greed, anger, and ignorance,
born of my body, speech, and thought,
I now make full and open acknowledgement.

There follows a recitation of the Three Refuges, the Three Pure Precepts, and the Ten Clear Mind Precepts. (You can read a bit about the first and the third here and here, respectively.) Usually there are bows too, though when and how many depends on the practice center’s or temple’s particular forms. The same is the case for any other chanting—a dedication of merit, for instance—whether incense are passed from participant to participant before being offered at an altar, and whether participants share specific actions and behaviors.

Sometimes Ryaku Fusatsu is described as a “confession ceremony” or “repentance ceremony.” It has these aspects to it and they can be made more or less pronounced depending on the Guiding Teacher’s preferences. Yet the Sangemon is only part—though an important part—of the ceremony. In addition to the “full and open acknowledgement” of our karma (or: our kusala and akusala kamma-cetanā [wholesome and unwholesome karmic volitions]), there is a recommitment to the precepts central to our lives. We recommit not from a feeling of guilt or shame, or some sense that we failed to meet an unrealistic standard and must rouse self-hatred so that we’ll do better. Rather, our recommitment is gentle—we remember our basic goodness and encourage ourselves to remain in touch with our humanity. The Three Pure Precepts are the simple expression of this. We vow

First, to embrace and sustain right conduct.
Second, to embrace and sustain every good.
Third, to embrace and sustain all beings.

And all of this grounded in the confidence that we are complete just as we are, necessarily. So Dogen Zenji writes in the Genjōkōan:

No creature ever falls short of its own completion. Wherever it stands, it completely covers the ground.

Photo by Marcel Ardivan on Unsplash

When sharing some of my Step One story, I used a parable from the Dhammapada. A house had fallen apart, its rafters and ridgepole had been destroyed. The scene is intended to describe a shift in the relation between what I am and what I think I am—between my ever-present completion and the constructed self with its many Post-It notes. The latter doesn’t disappear and it need not disappear. It has its place. But it is seen through—and that changes everything. It’s seen through when the energy of aversion relaxes just enough for an opening to appear, into which I can step and, if I choose, see more of what has been happening alongside that carefully curated production.

We don’t step into that opening just once, though. Step Five offers the opportunity at least once a year; Ryaku Fusatsu offers the opportunity once a month; Step Ten offers the opportunity daily—or even multiple times a day. Openings present themselves to us again and again throughout this life.

How am I showing up in my relationships with others? How am I showing up for myself? Where is “I-me-mine” appearing? Where is there harboring of ill will? Where is there the tight wrappings of delusion?

What I am offering is an interpretation of admitting powerlessness, of admitting to that in which we find refuge, to ourselves, and to another human being, that is both a step forward—beyond the small self’s narrow point of view—and a step backwards, through which we reconnect with our original nature. There is movement in both directions and at the same time we stay put. We remain right where we are, just as we are.

Sometimes this “full and open acknowledgement” of what’s born through greed, anger, and ignorance by way of our body, speech, and thought comes with ease, other times with great resistance; sometimes relief follows, other times aches linger; and at still other times we notice our admission is wrapped in expectations of there following certain effects. Whatever follows, though, I assure you that none of it is a mistake. It’s all part of the on-going activity of commitment and recommitment to full presence in this life.